A 120’ x 72” x 40” display case, constructed of
welded steel and semi-transparent glass and housing a collection of found,
altered and manufactured objects.Some objects come from the natural world, such as stones and branches;
some come from the man-made world, such as copper cables and steel clamps;
while others combine the natural and man-made in poetic ways.Some objects are crafted into geometric
shapes, such as a solid, cast iron mazzochio (a piece of decorative headgear
that was often depicted in perspectival paintings in the Renaissance).And some objects are left raw, such as
a cube of split limestone.Many of
these objects are studio experiments.That is, they result from undertaking a material process where outcomes
are unclear at the outset—tests, if you will.These tests lead to an increased understanding of the
process at play, which in turn leads to using these processes
methodically.For example a
piece of old-growth yellow cedar is machined into a polyhedron such that each
face is 3 degrees from the perpendicular of its neighboring faces.This form is then partially submerged
in a bath of ink.By capillary
action, the ink is drawn upwards along the wood grain.The resulting stains and ink-lines are
chaotic and relatively unpredictable—marks that are not made by the hand,
but by the nature of the wood and the ink.The wood is then allowed to dry and then submerged again to
a different level.This process is
repeated several times.The result
is a series of complex lines that evoke a wooded landscape contained within a
geometric form.

Taken together, the objects in Streambed form a complex system that
explores adjacency and juxtaposition.How does one object change when placed next to a second object?How do both of these objects change
when a third element is introduced?How does changing the arrangement of these objects affect the way they
are “read”?How is the circular
projection of light from Meridian Sleeve seen in the context of the similarly-scaled globe of glass that
works like a lens and appears to contain the other objects in the
collection?How does the
branched-end of a piece of switchgrass alter the way we perceive a bramble of
fiber optics?

The museum, as we know it today, has its origins
in early forms of worship, collection, and categorical thinking.Medieval reliquaries, Renaissance
curio-cabinets and natural history museums, much like art museums, depend upon the
contextual presentation of artifacts to construct particular “readings.”Streambed is meant to explore the
ways we order and interpret the world.It is also meant to explore and question the ways by which we see, and
subsequently name, an object as an object.This project is a an outgrowth of a similar project from
2008, titled Tables of
Inadvertence (see below). As such, it is meant to be
incommensurable, ever-evolving and adaptive.In its origin, production and re-production, it is for me,
as an artist, a form of “thinking through objects.”Simultaneously it is a form of “systems thinking”—a
practice of physical, material poetry, where constellation-like relationships
emerge through the intuitive placement and arrangement of various objects.The title for this particular version, Streambed, is inspired by the
experience of looking down through the layers of a flowing stream, with the
various distortions, reflections and repetitions that shift and alter features
under the water.It is also meant
to refer to stream-of-consciousness thinking and dream-imagery, where familiar
objects and images have an uncanny and elusive nature.

Reflections on Meridian Sleeve, Streambed & Inversion

2011

Meridian Sleeve, Streambed & Inversion were conceived as
site-specific installations for the Denver Museum of Contemporary Art as part
of the exhibition Another Victory Over the Sun (2011).They were designed to function both separately and together as a
whole.Each piece is meant to
engage, interrogate and play with the architecture of the MCA building and
modernist architecture in general.They are also meant to touch upon the history of various museum
practices, such as containment, collection and display.Finally, they are meant to investigate
some of the conventions and assumptions that have conditioned the way we
perceive and conceive of space and time.To be specific, they stem from an interest in the codification of space
that resulted from the invention of perspectival representation in the
Renaissance and how this innovation laid the ground for subsequent forms of
Western scientific thought.

For the past few years, I have been primarily concerned with ideas
of space and the systems by which it has been represented and mapped.More and more, I find myself interested
in time, especially as an inextricable aspect of space.I have been thinking lately about the
consequences of separating space from time and the assumption that space is an
a-prior condition, with time steadily flowing in one direction. The idea that
space is an empty, three-dimensional container that exists prior to our
perception of it is a construct that serves particular ideological
frameworks.It is a highly
functional way to map and describe an ultimately unknowable territory.But it exists within a vast spectrum of
different, equally valid, systems of mapping and describing (songlines, gift
economies, books of living and dying). This has led me to ask:What if space (including matter and
objects) could be conceived of as a constantly, yet inconsistently, unfolding
fabric in which we are accountable participants?I say participants because, by this way of thinking, one is
actually producing space by one’s interactions with, and in, the world
(Lefebvre, Soja).How does
such a space get mapped and how does this type of thinking affect ideas of
time, movement and self?

As I reflect back on the three works included in Another Victory Over
the Sun, I
consider how each piece involves an experience of the body moving through
time.Inversion exists “in the round” and
can be seen from several different vantage points throughout the museum.A viewer leaves the piece behind and
encounters it again from a different perspective, having walked around the
corner or having gone from one floor to another.Similarly, Meridian Sleeve invites movement through
the stairwell as one follows the beam of light to its origin or terminus.And Streambed can be regarded from many
perspectives, each resulting in a different composition of objects on several
layers of glass that have varying degrees of reflection and transparency.
Though these artworks are all very still and quiet, they invoke time and
movement.Dust collects in the
cabinet; the clay dries and shrinks; one moves from room to room; one notices others in noticing the work.

This experience of ‘noticing others noticing’ is something I have
been considering more and more as I reflect back on these projects.It appears to me to be a type of movement that involves the
imagination.I first became aware
of it while watching visitors interact with the artwork and with one
another.I became more aware of it
in talking with others who had seen the exhibition and had noticed the same
thing.In Streambed viewers point things out
to one another as they move, both visually and physically, around the
piece.In Meridian Sleeve people venture up and down
the stairwell (together or alone) and encounter others doing the same; and when
a viewer cranes their neck over the railing to follow the beam of light, they
might very easily see another viewer looking up from below.As for Inversion, it appears as though
viewers become more aware of one another as they become aware of a lack of
viewers (others) within the void of the glass chamber.Taking note of these experiences has
given me new insights and new ideas.Certainly, I have been long interested in the implications of differing
perspectives, but I think my concerns up to this point have been more
theoretical and abstract, rather than the practical or social.

Classically understood, sculpture is a time-based medium:a viewer regards an object from one
perspective, then, by moving to other perspectives, constructs a mental image
of that object as it exists in space.This is as true for looking through one eye and then the other as it is
for moving from one side of a monument to another.The curious thing to me about this process is the importance
of memory, and in particular, embodied memory—memory as it relates to
physical movement.Parallax, the
apparent difference in an object, or set of objects, due to changing
viewpoints, is a useful term in this respect.If we think critically about the various strategies of
visual representation that defined the modern era (especially perspectival
painting) and the way they set the stage for a monocular, unmoving, timeless
and some might say, oppressive, observer—then parallax becomes an
interesting way to think about, acknowledge and engage difference.I find this to be a compelling way to
think about irreconcilable differences in cultures, voices, ways of seeing,
etc.More subtly, it is an
interesting way to think about the fact that one’s present self differs
from—is other than—one’s past selves and one’s future selves.

Like the rest of the work in this volume, these three pieces are,
first and foremost, meant to engage viewers in perceptual experiences that
provoke certain, yet unnameable, feelings.(This is not to assume that these “certain” feelings are
consistent from person to person.)Though they are informed by theoretical and historical questions, they did
not start with such questions in mind.They started from hands-on experiments, in the studio or in the field,
with both conventional and unconventional materials.My practice is that of a sculptor.I manipulate materials to make objects and installations of
an experiential nature.I am
certainly, and very strongly, invested in the craftsmanship and the formal
qualities of the things that I make.It may appear then, to be a bit of a stretch when I
say that my work is fundamentally about language.But I am referring to language here in its broadest
sense.I mean to include those
systems of order that allow us to organize and communicate information in
useful ways—relational systems that have agreed-upon rules that govern
the meaningful exchange of ideas.There is a language to Euclidian geometry, there is a language to jazz
music, there is a language to Victorian architecture and there is a language to
Persian carpets.In my work as a
sculptor, I am particularly interested in the language of visual
representation, especially the language of perspectival depiction.I am very curious about the way this
innovation has affected our understanding of space and matter—two
categories that are unmistakably fundamental to the practice of sculpture.

This curiosity arises from having spent a great deal of time
outdoors and thinking carefully about the way significant features of the
natural landscape get packaged, and hence perpetually deferred as experiences,
for the common visitor.For
example, the Grand Canyon has become a prescribed experience for most
visitors.It begins with
encounters with advertising-like imagery and slogan-like narratives prior to a
visit.It continues when one
encounters the paths, guardrails and framing devices that are used to direct
the experience.The third step in
this packaging and dislocation is the act of standing behind a camera and
taking (often clichéd) photographs, including those of oneself, or one’s group,
standing in front of the glorious backdrop.The final step in this production is sharing these images with
others after returning from the journey.I am interested here in blindness and whether or not it is possible to
see something that has been packaged to such an extent. This experience differs
very little from a visit to the Louvre to see the Mona Lisa.Such prescribed experiences leave little room for the live,
human creature to encounter something that otherwise defies words or other
representations, especially photographs.These are instances in which the signifying complex (language)
conditions experience to the extent that the object or phenomenon is rendered
“consumable.”There are moments
though, when the reverse happens, moments when the signifying complex collapses
and one is “consumed” in an encounter with an object or phenomenon.These are moments of aesthetic (i.e.
perceptual) engagement that language fails to encompass.My question then, is whether or not it
is even possible to actually see something that defies one’s ability to
adequately represent and comprehend it.

As an artist intrigued by the momentary collapse of conventionalized
vision when encountering something in the natural world, I am, in turn, very
curious about such failures when it comes to encounters with things that are
culturally produced.I am not
simply referring to those moments in which an experience defies description.I am referring more specifically to
those moments in which we experience something that does not fit into the
frameworks that normally give us the tools to navigate the day-to-day world.If we consider the signifying complex
that co-opts phenomena such as the Grand Canyon or the Mona Lisa to be a veil, then it is
the innovative artwork that either puts a tear in that veil or reveals that
veil to be what it is, in all its pretenses.Hence, Duchamp puts a mustache on the Mona Lisa.This playful gesture gave her a new face, at least
temporarily.

I am of the opinion that interesting artworks are unwieldy.They withstand multiple readings.They defy description.They change each time you visit
them.They challenge you and they
alter the way you imagine the world to be.They give a little shock to thought and to vision.I like to think of this moment as a
slow, but sudden recognition—a moment of being present and sensing
presence, a moment in which one’s perceptual field is refreshed and one’s inner
chatter is silenced, a moment that mixes beauty with dread and wonder with
critical thought.